


Will it come like a change it the weather?

by Melanie_D_Peony



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blind Date, Emotionally Repressed, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Ficlet, First Dates, Fluff, Getting Together, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Jealousy, Lies, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 01, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: Everybody is excited when Martin finally gets himself a date - everybody, except for Jon, who can not quite justify his apprehension over Martin's upcoming night out. Maybe it's just that he worries about his worst employee's work perfomance.He tries to be supportive, regardless.But still, shenanigans ensue.But it didn’t, not to Jon, at least. He simply couldn’t phantom what was the man's problem with kind, patient, attentive Martin who, even now, amidst the ruins of a promised date, was altogether too selfless to get properly angry with his pathetic excuse of a boss....‘Why are you apologising?’ Martin asked in disbelief.‘Because I cocked up and because while you have every right to do so, I still don’t think I could stand if you began to hate me as well.’ he admitted with the kind of honesty that surprised even himself. He had no idea he’d felt this way; not until he said it out loud just know.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 199





	Will it come like a change it the weather?

The oppressive silence of the archives was elevated as the assistants filed in, dispersing the sombre solitude with their chatter. While there was a certain appeal to having the office for himself alone, Jon usually avoided sending all three of them out on fieldwork at once like this. He pretended that it had to do with the workload or his desire to not have to deal with the members of the public when they staggered in, traumatised, to give their statements. But on the rare occasions he allowed himself to be completely honest, he had to admit that he’d taken up this attitude since the feeling of being watched became all the more pronounced when he was left alone in their obscure little office within the Institute. 

Today, however, he felt a certain apprehension when he noticed the lilt of Tim’s voice, the shape of it curling in a way it always did when he was “in a story”, echoing down the stairwell, followed by the chime of Sasha’s laughter. The sense of dread only strengthened when he caught the soft, even drone of Martin as he joined the conversation, for reasons he really didn’t want to dwell on too much. 

It’s because it was so childish, he assured himself as he watched them file in, moving to their desks, gathering their bearings. It was late in the day and they only returned to grab their bags and other possessions; reports will have to wait until tomorrow. It would have been so easy to remain in his secluded office, pretend he was long gone. Crumple the note, bin it. Pretend he’d merely forgotten on the off chance of it ever being mentioned again. 

But then he watched, sheltered in the dark, as Martin’s open, sincere face lit up at something Tim had said and, once again, he hadn’t had it in him to resent the man, no matter his resolve. The idea of hurting Martin was about as appealing as kicking a puppy. That was the reason why he’d continued to give glowing reviews to him in person and only confess his problems with Martin’s work ethic to the tapes. The same reason why, six months in, he still hadn’t talked to Elias about finding a suitable replacement. 

He groaned to himself at the thought. Surely, if Jon was to relay this message to Martin he was likely to become even more distracted, the quality of his research further plummeting - something they could barely afford. But as he studied Martin’s features for some hidden sign that the turn of events would push him in the right direction, hoping to discover a visible streak of motivation, all he noticed was an unusually happy tinkle to his eyes, a faint colour to his cheeks from the cold air outside. It was such stark contrast to his familiar, pale and wrung expression of resolute melancholy, so strangely becoming on him that he had found himself stepping in the bullpen well before he had made a conscious decision. Jon may not have been the warmest person alive, but depriving Martin of what little joy life would afford him would have required a true sociopath. 

_He’d never know better,_ a cruel little voice in the back of his mind suggested, but by then he was standing right next to Martin’s desk. 

‘Oh, hi Jon. I thought you’d left.’ Martin glowed at him as he wrapped his scarf distractedly around his neck; of course, he’d forgotten to take it earlier, probably shivering through the day as he trodded the soggy London streets on a chase to find out more about a fabled Leitner. _The idiot._ ‘Is everything ok?’ 

There must have been something dark about Jon’s expression to prompt such a question - he could feel his discomfort growing with each passing second, as palpable as the sensation of the scratching little post-it note in his clammy wrist. 

‘Here.’ he growled hurriedly, thrusting his hand forward to get it finally over and done with. Martin’s fingers brushed his as he took the paper. 

‘Thank you.’ the sentence sounded more like a question and he proceeded to unfold the note, something that Jon hoped he’d only do much, much later. Away from here. ‘Is this for the Rudenko statement?’ 

Martin was referring to the case Jon wanted him to follow up once he had the lead on that Leitner - which wasn’t going to happen for weeks, based on Martin's usual morale. 

‘No.’ he barked. He could feel Tim’s and Sasha’s glare in his back like knives’ edges - Jon wasn’t the only one who was strangely protective of the clumsy new assistant. 

‘Then wha…’

‘A man was here.’ It almost came out like a scared shout, so he coughed a little to get a better handle on his vocal cords. ‘From IT. He installed some new updates. He wanted me to give you his number. He wants a date.’

Jon could feel his eyes roll up involuntarily as Tim wolf-whistled behind him. When his gaze returned to Martin, he saw that the man’s blush had deepened and there was a new, pink tinge to the tip of his ears too. 

‘Ah.’ he said unintelligibly, incapable to meet Jon’s eyes. Or anyone’s for that matter. He was staring at the note in his hand like it was a live grenade. 

‘Oooh, Martin.’ Sasha crooned and to Jon’s horror, she lowered her handbag back on her desk. 

‘Good for you, mate.’ Tim stepped closer, clapping Martin’s shoulder, while he seemed to have been sinking further and further into the quicksand of mortification the more attention they paid to him. ‘What’s the name, boss?’

Jon just shrugged, but Martin finally spoke up, voice wobbling under the weight of his nosey colleagues' sudden interest. 

‘It says here that he’s called Rupert.’ 

‘Sounds posh.’ Tim frowned, looking displeased. Jon almost pointed out that he used to attend Trinity college himself, but thought the better of it, as Sasha stepped beside him. Now they were rounding Martin in a semi-circle and the whole scene was so much like something taken from a primary playground that he shuddered involuntarily. He turned on his heels, ready to depart, having had enough of such infantile endeavours, when Sasha nudged Martin. 

‘Are you going to call him?’ 

Inexplicably, he found himself freeze on the spot. He threw a glance at the trio over his shoulder and just caught Martin’s gaze as his eyes met Jon’s. Martin was quick to look away, dragging his shoulder up and down in a gesture of uncertainty.

‘I’m not sure.’ he admitted, sounding small and surprisingly miserable. 

‘You should.’ Sasha insisted and made a grabbing motion, asking mutely for Martin’s phone. 

‘He should wait a little, Sash.’ Tim object as Martin hesitated to hand over the ancient artefact of a mobile he owned. ‘He’ll look desperate, otherwise. I say give it three days.’ 

‘And that’s precisely why are you single, Stoker. Phone, Martin.’ Sasha insisted with an uncharacteristic fierceness.

‘O-okay.’ Martin scattered for his phone, but Tim nicked it from him before Sasha had a chance to get it. 

‘Let me handle this.’ He demanded, raising the device above his head where Sasha couldn’t reach. 

‘Are you going to phone him?’ Martin virtually squeaked in desperation and it was Stoker’s turn to roll his eyes. 

‘ _Pfff_. No.’ He declared and began to type away on the outdated Nokia. 

‘What are you writing?’ Sasha whinged by his side, but he elbowed her out of the way and pressed send before anyone had a chance to pry.

‘Just let me be your wingman, Martin and by the end of the week, he’ll be eating from the palm of your hand. That’s the Stoker guarantee.’ He boasted and as if to verify his proclamation, Martin’s phone pinged just as he handed it back. 

‘What did he say?’ Sasha demanded. 

_Nothing good_ , Jon thought to himself, still hovering on the periphery of the conversation, _j_ _udging by Martin’s expression_. His assistant paled a great deal as he read the new text and swallowed noisily, before looking up at the others, eyes pleading like of one’s who is stranded at sea without a lifebuoy. 

‘He wants to meet on Friday.’ He announced gravely and Tim and Sasha erupted in small, but honest cheer. They regrouped in an even tighter circle around Martin, while Jon quietly made a beeline for his office. He has had enough of this juvenile nonsense, he decided. He caught Martin looking at him once more as he closed the door of his office on himself, but never bothered deciphering his assistant's strange expression. 

* * *

Jon found himself unusually fretful, floating in and out of his office, more distracted than he’s ever been since he was appointed his new prestigious position. He couldn’t shake a weird feeling of loss, like he misplaced a precious item, like he had forgotten something important. He battled the unease until lunch hour rolled around, when he subconsciously reached for his steaming mug of tea, not bothering to look up from his current statement as he did. Only to clutch empty air. That finally made him tear his attention away from the account of a strange happening in a small town cemetery and he had a sudden epiphany. Of course. Martin had forgotten his tea. 

If there was one thing his assistant was good for it was making tea. He made it milkier and sweeter than Jon would ever dare, mind, but somehow he never found himself complaining about that and strangely enough, he always drained it with enthusiasm. And it’s not that it was Martin's _job_ to make it, but since this skill was pretty much the only reason Jon had put up with him for so long, he felt entitled to his usual cup of Earl Grey. 

He jumped up, tore open his office door and he bellowed into the quiet workplace ambience.

‘Martin! Martin?’

‘He’s gone out, Jon.’ Sasha looked up from her computer, irritated. 

‘Yeah, boss, you sent him on a wild goose chase in Derbyshire’ Tim chimed in and he pushed he wheely chair out from behind his desk, stretching his lanky figure as he sat. ‘to quote “be rid of him” for a couple of hours.’ 

‘Ah. Is that so…’ Jon mumbled, and indeed, he remembered instructing Martin not to bother coming in on Friday, but to follow up some utter nonsense far in the rural depth of the Peak District. It should have annoyed him more, having to make his own, far more bitter and admittedly inferior tea, but somehow he was only relieved. Perhaps he was subconsciously irked by one of his assistants being unaccounted for and was able to relax now that he got to the bottom of the mystery. 

‘He should be back soon, though.’ Tim offered helpfully, checking his obnoxious wristwatch. ‘He texted me to say that he found nothing and caught a train at three.’ 

‘Oh, that’s good.’ Sasha brightened considerably where she sat behind an old monitor. ‘That means that he’ll still be on time for his big date.’ 

Tim made a soft sound of contentment, while Jon felt his stomach drop. He’d finally, finally managed to forget about Martin’s blessed date and the sudden fact of it weighed him considerably down, as if he found himself padded with lead. He had no reason to have such misgivings about his subordinates' private lives and if it was about Tim or Sasha, he wouldn’t have cared half as much to begin with. But the thought of Martin prancing in on Monday, full of the story of his successful night out, lovesick, happy and even more distracted as usual filled him with trepidation. Sensing a stress migraine coming on, he began quickly to retreat to his office, feeling in the crosshair of his assistants’ curious glances. 

‘Yes, jolly good.’ He muttered, banging his door shut with more force than he’d intended. Only when he sunk in his chair did he realise with a groan that he’d forgotten all about making himself a tea, but going back to the bullpen was out of the question now. He got on with work instead, parched and mildly irritated as he was. 

* * *

It was well past nine when he felt it safe enough to chance leaving his office. By then darkness rolled out over London like a thick blanket and it muffled the quiet in the Institute even further. He shrugged on his overcoat, straining his ears for the sound of the miserable downpour, that lorded over the town since the morning, on his way up to the ground floor. He could see that it was still coming down as he reached the lobby and he began the treacherous task of shaking his umbrella open. It was a cheap thing he grabbed in a haste in a Poundland and was half broken already and reshaping it into something resembling in an actual umbrella was an arduous job that took up so much of his mental capacity that he didn’t even realise when the man stepped beside him. Having achieved something resembling a success, he looked up, only to be confronted with the sight of Rupert, returning from the pouring rain to the Institute. 

‘Rupert?’ he called out and yes, it was the same man from IT who humiliated him roughly a week before by having him play Cupid for his office flick. ‘What are you doing here?’

Ruper looked about himself, a bit shocked by Jon’s presence and by the tone of his voice. 

‘Aren’t you supposed to be on a date with Martin?’ Jon demanded. He intended it as a question, but it came out more like an accusation because the cursed dinner was all his assistants could talk and he could think about for the last couple days, so he was actually pretty sure about the answer. 

‘Ah, yes, about that.’ Rupert’s face lit up with mean spirited recognition and he poked a wet and accusatory finger in Jon’s chest. ‘You gave my number to the wrong guy, mate. What gives?’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ Jon argued. ‘You told me to give your number to my assistant.’

‘Yes. To the _handsome_ one!’ Rupert syllabized and it suddenly dawned on Jon. They’d been standing together with Rupert, bending over Martin’s desk as he handed Jon the post-it with the number. Rupert hadn’t known the assistant he was asking about by name. All he could tell was that he was working in the Archives and he had “boyish good looks”. And Jon made the mental leap and connected the assistant in question to the one whose computer they were updating and…

Shit. 

‘But you called him to cancel, right?’ He asked Rupert, boiling with derelict anger he hadn’t known whether he should target at the smarmy tech guy or on own his idiotic self.

‘Well.’ Rupert laughed, his expression suddenly conspiratory. ‘Not exactly. But he will realise what the situation is, soon enough.’ 

Jon swore under his breath and pushed past Rupert, towards the exit, making sure to bump into the guy with force. Hoping against all hope and despite his own smaller stature that he properly winded him. Outside his umbrella bailed on him as soon as he opened it, so he shoved it in a bin and made it for Pimlico, getting more sodden by the minute. Water was dripping from him as stood in the packed carriage on the Tube. Only when he took off Embankment did he realise that despite knowing which place Martin had picked for the date and having the rough idea of it being near the Thames, he had no way of knowing how to get there. He considered a cab but quickly learned that no one will stop for him in this weather and he continued to circle the area in the almost solid sheet of rain for another ten minutes before he spotted the restaurant. 

By then Martin’s date should have been going on for a good forty-five minutes and there was every chance that his assistant tired of waiting and left a long time ago. But he spotted him almost instantly at the far end of the establishment, scanning the place as soon as he entered. So he ignored the waiter at the door and marched inside, unbothered by the wet trail he left in his wake. Martin hadn’t seen him yet, he was busy talking to a young waiting staff, so Jon had an opportunity to analyse his expression and prepare for damage control. He didn’t look too devastated to Jon, which filled him with some surprisingly intense sense of relief. Well, he did feel a certain degree of responsibility for the misunderstanding after all and confronting a distressed Martin was his least favourite job in the world, so that was understandable, he thought. And Martin looked so content and good, wearing a pastel coloured jumper, listening to the teenage waiters yammering with rapturous attention that for a moment he had forgotten why he actually came. That is until the shocked murmur of the patrons who had noticed his wet descent had alerted Martin of Jon’s presence. 

His assistant’s face fell as soon as he spotted Jon and only then did he consider that perhaps Martin didn’t want a colleague to actively witness his humiliation. But Martin’s expression of mortification was quick to morph into a different kind of dread as he fully took in the state of Jon. 

‘Good God, what happened to you?’ he asked, jumping from his seat. 

‘This your date?’ the waiter, altogether too young to be working anywhere Jon felt, pointed a flippant thumb at him, as Martin had approached with an expression of single-minded concern. His resolve suddenly faltered as he planted himself in front of Jon and he seemed unsure of his previous intentions at once. Jon, on his side, felt exactly the same. 

‘God, Jon, did you come here swimming, or what?’ Martin asked with a nervous little chuckle and Jon found that he was still slightly out of breath from running about the nearby streets in a frantic state of mind. 

‘I-I came to…’ he began, but Martin interrupted him, his expression considerably darker under the sincere worry. 

‘You need to go home, Jon. You are absolutely drenched.’ 

It was a reasonable request, but when Jon contemplated a soggy Tube ride to a cold, empty flat on the opposite end of town, he found it unacceptable. 

‘Nonsense.’ He declared and he planted himself by the candlelit table with an obnoxiously loud and _moist_ sound, handing the menu back to the gaping, young waiter. ‘I’m having what he is having.’ 

‘Jon. What are you doing?’ Martin’s calm voice was full of threat and he clearly only sat down across Jon to play hostage negotiator over his hijacked date. 

‘What does it look like? I’m dining.’

The poor, unsuspecting adolescent chose that moment to announce that Martin hasn’t ordered yet, which made Jon bark at him. 

‘Well, what’s good here?’

‘What do you mean dining? Jon, can you tell me why are you here…?’

‘I’m here because you hadn’t warned me to go for lunch. Therefore I haven’t eaten all day, so can we just please order? I am famished.’ He snapped a little at Martin in turn, his bad conscious and ridiculous appearance making him short-fused. But he knew he’d made a mistake after taking one look at Martin, who gaped back at him, looking a lot like a fish on dry land. 

‘And how is that my fault’ he cried incredulously. ‘when it’s you who sent me to Derbyshire for a statement we both knew was bollocks? The local kids admitted to fabricating the story, by the way, after some parental coercion.’

‘That’s good.’ Jon nodded, retrieving the menu from the flabbergasted waiter. It was turning rapidly into pulp among his wet fingers and from the droplets that had fallen on it from his nose and from the fame of his glasses. 

’I am not your keeper, Jon. And if you want to eat…’ Martin began, his anger gathering momentum, forcing Jon to lower the almost completely illegible menu and confront him. 

‘No, you are not. But you are the only one who is still willing to lunch with me since I’ve been appointed Head Archivist. Sasha and Tim tend to ignore me, so when you are not around, I often forget to have something for the whole day.’ 

Pathetic as it was, the confession made Martin’s expression soften and he gently took the soggy cardboard from his hand.

‘We’ll have the chef’s special.’ he said to the waiter offhand.

With the boy finally disappearing Jon found himself suddenly apprehensive and he began to toy with the fancy linen napkin in front of him. His dribbling coat made the only sound between them. 

‘Jon.’ Martin addressed him finally, snapping him out of his quiet trance and he half blurted, half cried his confession. 

‘Rupert is not coming.’ 

‘I gathered that much.’ Martin chuckled at him and Jon risked a glance. He didn’t look too annoyed or sad. Just baffled. That, he decided, was good. ‘What happened?’

Martin asked him gently as if it was him who just got let down by a date. 

‘H-he wanted me to give the number to Tim, actually.’ Jon admitted, the confession making Martin chuckle without mirth.

‘That makes sense.’ he announced. 

But it didn’t, not to Jon, at least. He simply couldn’t phantom what was Rupert’s problem with kind, patient, attentive Martin who, even now, amidst the ruins of a promised date, was altogether too selfless to get properly angry with his pathetic excuse of a boss. 

‘I am so sorry, Martin.’ He huffed, his resolute voice finally letting on some of his sincere distress and Martin’s eye flashed at him, annoyed. Only, his anger wasn’t directed at Jon, but someone else instead. 

‘Why are _you_ apologising?’ He asked in disbelief.

‘Because I cocked up and because while you have every right to do so, I still don’t think I could stand if you began to hate me as well.’ he admitted with the kind of honesty that surprised even himself. He had no idea he’d felt this way; not until he said it out loud just know. 

‘It’s not your fault that Rupert didn’t give a toss about cancelling our date.’ Martin said forcefully, holding Jon’s gaze steadily to make sure he’d understood. ‘And Tim and Sasha don’t hate you.’ 

Jon made a noise of distress. Not because he disagreed, but because he somehow made it about himself at that was the last of his intentions. But Martin rushed in, misunderstanding the chocked little growl. 

‘Give them time. They’ll come around. And now with this out of the way, can we please, _please_ take you home?’

Jon genuinely wanted to protest, but he began to shiver in his wet clothes in the meantime and had a sinking suspicion that Martin wouldn’t take any argument seriously as long as it was uttered from between his chattering teeth. 

‘I wanted to treat you to dinner. To make up for the mishap.’ He stuttered with shivering lips. 

‘Don’t die of pneumonia and I’ll forgive you.’ Martin promised him and he signalled the waiter for the cheque. 

‘But the food…’

‘We’ll take it away. Call an Uber, Jon.’ 

He busied himself with his phone that miraculously survived being submerged in his flooded pocket, while Martin sorted out the takeaway boxes and mere ten minutes later they stood together on the pavement, under the shelter of the canvas roof stretching by the restaurants' side, as Jon’s cab pulled up to them. 

‘I am sorry, Martin.’ Jon said yet again before bending down to fold his wet, miserable self on the backseat. 

‘For the last time, Jon, it’s not your fault that he is a twat.’ 

‘Not. But it’s my fault for not warning you about that.’ Jon admitted, having lost whatever little sympathy he had for Rupert.

‘I get that you didn’t want to spoil my evening.’ Martin shook his head with fond exasperation. 

‘And yet, somehow, I still managed to do just that.’ Jon grinned with misery. 

But to his surprise, Martin didn’t grow irritated or short with him. Instead, he pulled Jon into a clumsy embrace. 

‘You’ve already made up for it.’ He said against Jon’s temple, before letting him go, a dark, archivist -shaped wet patch staining his jumper as he closed the cab door after him. 

And as the car pulled from the curbside, Jon could feel his cheeks lighting up, with what surely was the beginning of an oncoming fever. 

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by a web comic, called Blossom Boys.  
> Check it out: https://tapas.io/episode/143008
> 
> * * *
> 
> When it comes will it come without warning  
> Just as I am picking my nose?  
> Will it knock on my door in the morning,  
> Or tread in the bus on my toes?  
> Will it come like a change it the weather?  
> Will its greeting be courteous or rough?  
> Will it alter my life altogether?  
> O tell the truth about love.


End file.
